


Caesura

by descartes



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-31
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:42:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/descartes/pseuds/descartes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where gifts are given, toast is eaten and what personal assistants do may be above and beyond what is called for in the line of duty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caesura

**Author's Note:**

> A **cookleta_xmas** story written for **clover71**'s prompt "I saw mommy daddy kissing Santa Claus" and originally posted [ [here](http://community.livejournal.com/cookleta_xmas/4926.html?style=mine) ]. Not as fluffy as I'd hoped, but I tried :) Many thanks to **celli**, **jehane18** and **rajkumari905** for their heroic beta work ♥ Any remaining mistakes are my own.

David eases his way into the empty function room, balancing a precarious jumble of laptop and store-fresh recording equipment in his arms.

These he lays as carefully as he can on the glossy black surface of the piano that's been pushed against one wall. He looks around. A piano, enough carpet to ensure that even the hum of central heating won't make a din, and a sign on the closed door reading "Silence Please. Event In Progress." in three languages.

The hotel manager has even been kind enough to provide two bottles of water on a discreet rolling tray.

(Julie, his PA, hadn't even blinked when David had come up to her one week ago, chattering about how the sounds produced by keyboards — while beautiful in their own way — couldn't quite match the timbre of a _real_ instrument.

When he'd finally trailed off into sheepish, half-formed syllables, she'd consulted her BlackBerry and said, "The hotel has a spare piano somewhere. I'll make arrangements."

Neither had she asked him anything when he'd handed her a shopping list of microphones, memory cards and blank CDs that he'd compiled from the advice of his dad, Jason, Brooke and a confusing three hours on Google.

Julie had only said, "I'll clear your schedule on Thursday," and David would've told her that he loved her, except that she terrified him a bit every time she had her earpiece on.)

After accidentally trying to fit the pop-cap over the microphone jack and leaving most of the wires in a hopeless tangle (but it isn't like anyone will be seeing them anyway), David sits in front of the piano, adjusts the video camera and breathes in.

His fingers trip up and down the keys in some simple scales; _everything sounds in tune,_ he thinks.

David takes another deep breath — filling his lungs as though he's at the top of some twisting stairwell — and is suddenly glad that the room's lighting will hide his quickly-reddening face from the camera's gaze.

  
It was the rarest of days during what Chikezie used to call "the Post-Idol era": no gigs, no photoshoots, no interviews, no songwriting or recording sessions, no schedules bristling with grey and red.

Instead, there was the presence of Cook's ankle, casually touching his under the diner table, while the rest of him sat across from David, ballpoint firmly in hand over a newspaper crossword. His tongue was sticking out from between his lips.

Without looking up from _17 across: Dessert made with pineapple_, Cook said, "Don't even think about it, Archie."

"I'm not doing anything," David replied. Both of his hands were occupied with transferring forkfuls of banana waffle into his mouth. Per mutual agreement, all cellphones and mobile devices that could even be considered to have Twitter-updating abilities had been banished to jeans pockets and backpacks. They'd both been struggling.

"Thoughtcrime," Cook muttered, but so quietly under the clatter of cutlery and cups surrounding them that David wasn't sure if he heard him correctly.

  
"Hey, Cook," David tells the camera, trying not to eye the delayed-feedback miniature of himself on the laptop screen. "This is, I guess it's unexpected, huh? Like that, um, video you showed me once. Except they were Spanish or something and I didn't really get that, sorry."

He's drifted into _Chopsticks_ without his noticing. He clears his throat.

"Anyway, I'm not sure if the timing will be OK — I mean, I don't know if you'll get this on time and I suppose this would be better if I just, like, e-mailed you or something, but—" A pinky wavers over a key minutely before pressing down.

"_Happy birthday, David_," he starts to sing.

No one, not even the eventual recipient, would've guessed that it had taken him endless hours in front of the mirror, to smooth away the residual prefix "C—" from the name that still remains strangely unfamiliar to him.

  
One of them out and about town might have been enough for a few bored paparazzi or well-meaning fans, but the two of them together was practically a small-scale stampede waiting to happen. Their breakfast, then, was conducted under the brims of baseball caps and the watchful eyes of a bodyguard two tables over.

Cook had put away the newspaper with the grim look of someone who wouldn't let himself regret the use of permanent ink on a crossword, and started munching on a slice of toast. David nudged the maple syrup in his direction without looking up; just because Cook liked putting sweet things on his toast didn't mean David had to watch him actually do it. Except when Cook had to chase the trails of syrup down his elbow. That was funny.

  
As the last note of "_you_" fades away, David smiles, suddenly giddy with nerves. There is no sheet music in front of him; he hadn't wanted to have an excuse to avert his eyes from the camera.

"The next song, well, next and last," David hastily corrects himself, "I hope you like it, because, uh, I don't think you've heard this one before."

Underneath the piano, his fists are clenched at the top of his thighs. He forces them to uncurl and relax.

He tells the camera, "No one's heard it before. I wrote this song for you."

  
If he only focused on Cook and the food in front of them, David could almost believe that they were in a sun-washed kitchen (Cook's place in L.A. that he barely used and probably only has cans of Coke in its cupboards, or David's house back in Utah with the handmade magnets on the fridge) having a private moment at the start of a day. They could sit hip-to-hip, Cook half-asleep at David's side, David being bold enough to place his hand over the strip of skin between Cook's boxers and shirt—

A lack of time, opportunity and privacy had conspired against them, so they learned to carve out little spaces for each other. Stupid, silly things like endless rapid-fire text messages of nothing more than increasingly absurd emoticons. Posing together at the red carpet of public events. Nothing more innocuous, and nothing rarer. This breakfast date had been the fruit of painstaking planning, one that David had been terrified would never happen for a very long time.

"Here," Cook said, transferring some of his omelet onto David's plate before he could protest. "Eat up."

David blinked at the small mountain accumulating on his plate. "Um, thanks?"

Cook grinned, leaning forward (David wondered if the wistfulness in Cook's gaze was as obvious to a passing waitress or customer as it was to him) and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "I always like my boyfriends buff and toned," and David had no choice; he kicked his shin under the table.

  
David watches the status bar in the program window inch forward excruciatingly slowly. He's never got into the habit of biting his nails, but he feels as if he could chew off a thumb or two at this moment.

Completely unaware of the anxiety it is causing, the DVD burner continues to whir and spin.

  
After the breakfast, they saw each other next when they'd been booked to film their promo spots for the latest season of Idol on the same day. It had been a while; David had had his hair trimmed thrice in the intervening time.

David was idling in the hallway singing to himself when the door to the studio swung open and out stepped Cook, scrubbed clean of make-up and getting ready to slip on his sunglasses. The next thing David knew, he was being swept up in an embrace, Cook's chin tucking itself into the crook of David's neck, David's arm awkwardly sandwiched between the heat of their bodies.

Cook babbled in his ear about his bandmates and ill-advised eBay purchases in a volume that strained David's eardrums, but David was pretty sure his own laughter, with his lips almost touching Cook's temple, was nearly as loud.

Finally, Cook's anecdote was punctuated with "you had to be there, or maybe it's a good thing you weren't," and David subsided into soft hiccuping gulps of air. His chest felt tight, like the onset of a bad cold, and he was about to free his arm for it to join its twin in clutching Cook's back, when—

"David! There you are! Hello, Mr Cook. Congratulations on the new tour. I hope you're doing well? Good. I'm sorry, but I have to borrow David here— the stylist is getting antsy."

Cook gave David a final squeeze and disengaged, telling Julie, "No problem." He absently straightened David's collar, thumbs very nearly brushing the fine hairs at David's nape.

"Go get them, superstar," he said.

  
Julie takes all of David's instructions regarding his thick square package in stride. She even finds a couple of "Fragile" stickers to adorn its surface and personally brings the thing for postage.

After the DVD leaves his hands, David allows himself to relax and even forget about it. It helps that he's been booked for a few concerts and a single to be released exclusively on iTunes; when he hasn't even got time to unpack his suitcase before he's shuttled off to do publicity, it's really hard to think about anything else other than the fact that even his toenails ache 24/7.

Memory returns on a Friday in a hotel in Portland. His hair's gone long again— he's about to ask for the afternoon off with a barber, when it occurs to him that not even the United States Post Office could take so long.

He starts with the usual: checking if his number's magically changed (it isn't. His little sister had left a funny voicemail yesterday), remembering when he last checked his private e-mail (that morning in the car, before his iPhone said he was a jerk for not charging it last night) and finally, reading his Twitter stream for every _@thedavidcook_ update.

Nothing at all.

  
He waits it out for three more days — maybe the postman couldn't read his handwriting properly? (except he actually got the address label printed) — before he teaches himself to set up a Google Alert for "David Cook" and faithfully reads (or skims) every article in whatever little spare time he has left.

  
_**@DavidArchie**_ says,  
@thedavidcook did you get my

Backspace.

_**@DavidArchie**_ says,  
I wish you'd tell me

Backspace.

Send **@thedavidcook** a direct message.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

_**@DavidArchie**_ says,  
Today is the lovely @thedavidcook 's birthday!! Wish him a very good day everyone! :D

_**@thedavidcook**_ in reply to _@DavidArchie_  
@DavidArchie Aw shucks :) Stop it. I'm blushing here.

  
He's going home at last, back to Utah for the handful of days that constitutes a Christmas holiday for a popular teen musician with an upcoming album to promote. He's just wrapping his neti pot with a clean t-shirt when his cellphone lights up.

David manages to not trip all over himself reaching for it. _It's not—_ he thinks fiercely, and he's right. It isn't. Julie's cheerful voice pierces through the less-than-perfect reception.

"I'm still flying home tomorrow, right?"

His fears are assuaged by Julie's laugh. "Of course! But I've booked you for something this evening."

"Oh," David says. He'd been hoping he could be alone, maybe listen to some Mariah Carey on his iPod and eat comforting Thai food. "I guess? What is it?"

"Singing at a Christmas party. The local hospital has a children's ward and I heard that a few of the patients are big fans of yours."

Then again, _khao pad gai_ could wait. "Oh, gosh, I'd love to do that!"

Julie manages to radiate her satisfaction loud and clear. "We'll keep it quiet, I promise. Meet me at the lobby at six."

  
The head of the pediatric ward can't decide whether she wants to cry, laugh or hug David first, so he takes the initiative to embrace her. (He's learned from the best, of course.)

He's ushered into the playroom, which has been transformed with Christmas cards pinned to a cork board and wreaths of holly everywhere. Patients from the ward are sitting on the primary-color floor mats, gazing up at David with some awe. A little girl in green pajamas shrieks when she sees him.

"Would do you mind waiting a bit?" Dr Simpson asks. "Only we still have to set up the sound system—"

"It's okay," David tells her, and turns to his audience, saying, "Hey, guys. I'm David and I'm singing for you tonight."

"We know!" the little girl says, then dissolves into giggles.

Another girl raises her hand shyly. "I saw you on _Hannah Montana_."

"My sister keeps a scrapbook of your pictures," a boy at the back contributes.

A hand tugs at the cuff of David's jeans, and a wide-eyed kid who very strongly reminds David of Daniel before his brother stopped being so tiny asks, "We made our own cards yesterday. Do you wanna see them?"

David looks at Dr Simpson, who makes a "five more minutes" gesture, and turns back with a smile. "I'd love to."

  
He sings _Joy To The World_, _The First Noel_ and _Pat-A-Pan_, then at the kids' request, _A Little Too Not Over You_ ("Really? But that's not Christmas-y— oh, okay.") and _Touch My Hand_ ("Um, I don't think I can do the Jonas Brothers. How about this one instead?")

While he swigs from a water bottle, Dr Simpson stands up and says, "And we have another lovely surprise for everybody, so please stay where you are."

"Cookies!" someone calls out.

Dr Simpson laughs. "That's for later, Sherrie. Oh, it's okay, David, you can stay where you are. Everyone, I'd like you to give a warm welcome to our other special guest!"

The loud booming "Ho ho ho!" is nearly drowned out by the cheers from the kids. David fumbles with the bottle and nearly spills water all over his shirt, since, OK, it's been a while, maybe all of his stupid yearning's gone to his brain and into his ears, because there's really no way this could be—

—but even under the baggy red suit and large white beard David _knows_ the set of those shoulders, the tilt of that head, the way his eyes close when he laughs from his belly; he know them all and has missed them fiercely for far too long.

"Oh my _God_," he whispers.

And if there was any doubt, the way Santa nudges him with the sackful of presents as he passes and says, "Language, Archie. There are kids present," clinches just about everything.

  
They sing _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_. Cook cries, but only David notices. (Which David thinks is a good thing, because he doesn't want to have to explain why Santa Claus is crying.)

  
"Hey," Cook says.

"Hey," David says.

The party's over; the kids have been sent back to their rooms with armfuls of presents, cookies, juice and a story of how David Archuleta _and_ Santa Claus visited them. David had heard two of the girls arguing over whether it really was David Cook as Santa as they went out, and he'd almost choked on his drink. They're the only ones still in the room. David can hear Julie talking to Dr Simpson in the corridor, and vaguely wonders why she hasn't come in to take David back to the hotel.

"I got your present," Cook says.

"Oh," David says. "Um, I'm sorry, but your costume is really distracting."

Cook chuckles. "Itchy, too," he replies, and tugs the fake beard off. "Can't do anything about the rest 'til I get to a bathroom, sorry."

"Right. You, um, got it?"

"Yeah," Cook says. He sticks his hands into his pockets and David realizes: Cook is nervous. Cook has never been nervous. Sure, David has been witness to Cook being tired or cranky or embarrassed, but never shuffling his feet and unable to look David in the eye.

Something thick catches in his throat, and struggling past it and the sudden heaviness in his limbs, he steps forward and manages a steady, "Is something wrong?"

Cook starts. "What? No! No, nothing's wrong. It's— when I got your CD, I didn't know what to expect from it. Well, Monty suggested— but never mind what Monty said. After I watched it, there was nothing I wanted to do more than storm the airport and fly out to where you were. But I was on tour and you've been on the West Coast and a phone call didn't seem enough, not by a long shot."

"You didn't have to say _anything_," David blurts out, and tries to press his sleeve against his mouth; he's shaking so badly.

But Cook gets there first, catching David's wrist with his hand and holding on.

"I had no fucking clue — nobody fucking did this for me before, I didn't know what the etiquette was — so I called Julie and we whipped up this whole plan, except I couldn't talk to you because I'd ruin the surprise and fuck, David—"

_Oh,_ David thinks, and reaches up and brings Cook's head down for a kiss.

  
"This suit is itching in places I didn't know I could itch in," Cook mumbles into David's collarbone after what feels like a very long time.

David hums sympathetically, but his fingers have tangled themselves on Cook's hair and won't let go.

"Did you realize," Cook continues, "that we've just made out in a hospital?" and yes, OK, David's fingers get the message.

"Why do we kiss in weird places anyway?"

"The sound booth at the Staples Center is _not_ a weird place."

Cook opens his mouth (shiny and pink-bitten, and gosh, David can't stop looking) to continue the argument, when a discreet knock comes from the door. "David? Mr Cook? Dr Simpson wants to have a word," comes Julie's voice.

The warmth that's suffused through David's body leeches out a bit at this sudden jolt of reality. He's going back home, back to Utah and his family, and Cook's going home too, to _his_ family or to his place in L.A. and it'll be the tyranny of their schedules again and they'll see each other only out of the corners of their eyes, surrounded by a crush of people and never ever touching, like the way it's always been.

"So, um," he says out loud, "I guess we have to go now."

"Yeah," Cook replies, but they're both motionless in the middle of the cheerful playroom, unwilling to move away from each other.

The bubble of a suggestion rises inside David, and it's ridiculous and impossible, but then he'd never imagined in a million years that Cook would show up at a place where David was singing wearing a Santa Claus suit all thanks to the best personal assistant _in the world_, so why not?

"I know you're going to a lot of places this Christmas, but would you like to spend a day or something at my house? We can make pancakes and I'll let you put whatever you want on them."

  
Julie peeks into the playroom and, shutting the door as gently as possible, turns to the waiting Dr Simpson. "Why don't we have some punch while we wait? They're catching up with each other, it's been a while, you see."

Dr Simpson nods understandingly.

**Author's Note:**

>   * **cae•su•ra** from the Latin _caedere, caesum_ 'to cut'; of metrical verse: a pause or breath in mid line. _taken from_ Fry, Stephen. The Ode Less Travelled.
>   * Crossword clue randomly taken from [No. 1018](http://media.collegepublisher.com/media/paper332/stills/sv6k78x8.jpg) edited by Will Shortz for _The New York Times_
>   * Referenced: [The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock](http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html), [Monty Python's "The Spanish Inquisition" sketch](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uprjmoSMJ-o)
> 



End file.
